101 Ways to (Attempt) to Kill Grif
by Jaegothis
Summary: The time has come... the Reds and Blues have had it with Grif, and they've decided to eliminate him. Unfortunately, they kind of fail at succeeding at anything.
1. Chapter 1

"Simmons! Where's the oil!"

Simmons was silent for a second. "We… don't have any oil, sir. But we did just get an order of hot tar!" he added, sounding slightly optimistic.

"Excellent, Private! Now, we have some Grif catching to do!" Sarge ran off.

Simmons sighed. "Same old, same old."

Sarge stopped abruptly. "What was that?"

"Nothing, sir."

OoO

 **101 Ways to (attempt) to kill Grif**

 **OoO**

 **Tar**

"Okay, what did I do now? Was it the exploding pie? Or the broken radio? I swear I didn't do it, that was Sim-" Grif frantically ran away from both Sarge and Simmons. "Ugh, I need to work out more…" he gasped as he dropped to the ground, panting.

"Now, Simmons!" Sarge cried, as Simmons threw the bucket of tar on the unfortunate orange clad soldier. There was an awkward silence as the boiling hot sludge completely missed.

"Wow," Grif said in a mock awed voice, getting up. "I am _so_ impressed with your _amazing_ skill."

"Why did you even think that'd kill him, anyways?" Donut asked, poking his head out of Red Base.

Sarge was silent. "Sixteen laps around the base, all of you! I need time to think about how to kill- er, I mean _reward_ Grif for his escape!"

Red Team grumbled. "You had to say it, didn't you?" Grif asked the pink soldier.

 **Warthog**

"Alright men, this is something we can't mess up!" Sarge pointed to a bright red X on the ground. "Now, Grif, stand right there. And whatever happens, _don't move._ "

Grif looked at the bright red X. "Nah, I think I'll go take a nap instead. Too much work to stand there, you know?"

Simmons made a random hand signal to Donut, who gunned the Warthog's engine and attempted to run down Grif. Instead, he hit a miniscule pothole and went flying away in the Warthog, where they crashed in a fiery ball.

Sarge growled manically under his breath. "How did you miss?" he shouted. "He was moving slower than a slug in the bottom of the ocean!"

"That's… called walking, sir." Simmons gazed at the fire before running away to escape more laps.

 **Shotgun**

"Grif! Give me a shotgun shell! It's for… uh, target practice!"

Donut watched from a distance. "You can't seriously think that'll work."

 _Crack!_

"Factory error." _Crack!_ "He moved." _Crack!_ "…"

"I like how you managed to get three shots out of a single shell," Grif observed casually.

Sarge began smacking Grif with the butt of the rifle. "Ow, ow, stop! Mercy!" Grif cried, shielding himself with his arms.

Suddenly Sarge stopped and grumbled under his breath. "Out of ammo," he announced grimly.

Simmons said, "…Um… it doesn't work that way, sir."

Sarge glared at his subordinate. "Who's the ballistics expert here, me or you?"

"Well, neither of us, but I think I would be-" _Smack!_

"Turns out there was more ammo in there than I thought!" Sarge announced, sounding proud.

"It doesn't work that way!"

 **Sniper Rifle**

"I want to use the sniper rifle."

"Shut up, Tucker!" Church turned away from him and focused on the rifle. "…I forgot how to zoom again."

"Oh, I know! See, when you're in a car, you say 'zoom zoom' and-" a soldier in dark blue armor began.

"Shut up, Caboose! I figured it out." Church peered through the scope. Tucker looked over his shoulder.

"That's the wrong zoom." he pointed out.

" _Will you shut up?_ I got this!" the aggravated sniper snapped.

"Oh yeah, like the last five times you tried to shoot a target! From five feet away!"

 _Crack! Crack! Crack!_

Grif watched as the sniper rounds landed all around him, completely missing him. "See, this is why all the ladies love me."

"Shut up, Grif!" Church howled, throwing Tucker at him.


	2. Terminator

I really owe you guys an update. Thank you all for the awesome support!

...

"Hey, so I had a thought..." Simmons turned to Sarge, looking off of the Red Base roof. "Do you think that the Blues would take money to do something... something like murder?"

Sarge turned to the maroon soldier. "We're Reds, Simmons! We don't ask for help from those dirty, stinkin' Blues!"

Simmons deflated slightly. "Oh, of course sir. But, you know, technically there are no Reds or Blues anymore."

"Deep down..." Sarge's voice began to get all emotional. "Deep down, we'll always be what we need to be... especcialy in the line of duty... whether we have Red or Blue armor..."

"Sir, you're acting weird. Are you okay? Need a neck massage or something? Because I'm sure Donut can help."

"Don't be stupid, private! Go do something useful like check inventory!" There was a brief pause. "And send Donut up if you see him!"

OoO

Five: Sheila

Church stood on the Blue base looking through the sniper rifle, because it's not like he had anything better to do. "Hey Tucker, you see that yellow guy over by Red base?"

"No, because I never get the freaking sniper rifle."

"He's orange," Caboose interjected in a loud whisper. "And I think he's taking a nap. That's not fair! Why does Griff with two f's get to nap during Together Time?"

Church put down the sniper rifle. "Hey, what's your beef?"

"CHICKEN!"

Tucker groaned. "Shut up, Caboose."

"Turkey!"

"I think he knows we're talking about him." Tucker ran to the edge to get a better view. "Can he hear us?"

"We're on the other side of the canyon, idiot."

Caboose looked from Church to Tucker. "He is making rude gestures. It's not nice to make rude gestures!"

"I think he's insulting Sheila now."

"...motor... idiot...treads!"

"Oh, he's going down," the tank growled, revving up.

Red Base

"Your mother was an idiot! And she hated Reds!" Grif cupped his hands to his face.

"What's he talking about?" Donut asked nobody in particular. "And why is the big tank lady coming over? Are we having a sleepover?"

Lopez came around the corner of the base. "I fixed the radio. Again. That's the third time today."

"You don't have to sound so excited," Simmons muttered. "Sarge! I think we're under attack!"

Sarge ran out of the base. "Whaddya mean, 'I think we're under attack?' We're either under attack or we're not! Quick Grif, run into its path and leave all your weapons here!"

"I got a better idea!" The yellow soldier ran into the base and re-emerged a second later, holding a rocket launcher. "Eat- wait, I can't make that joke becasues you're a tank. Whatever. Die!"

The rockets flew towards the tank and hit it on the side, making Sheila hit a convenient pothole and flip over.

"I hate it when this happens," she said.

"Sheila!" Lopez cried in his monotone voice.

Grif did a double-take. "Hey, when did you get a new speech unit?"

OoO

Six: Lopez

"Prepare to die, dumb yellow soldier," the robot said, pointing his rifle at Grif's head.

"Ha, ha. Joke's on you!" Grif said as Lopez's rifle clicked several times. "This is why you idiots should never let me handle the ammo! I mean, it saved me when Tex royally kicked our collective-"

"Shut up and die, you insubordinate insubordinate!" Sarge cried, cocking his shotgun.

Tucker popped in from nowhere. "Bow chicka bow wow."

"Word diversity is important, sir!" Simmons lectured. "And what are you doing here, Blue?"

"Another enemy! They're everywhere!" Surprise, Sarge's shotgun was out of ammo.

"Too bad you guys don't have a kickbutt energy sword that's secretly a key, suckers!" Tucker brandished said sword.

"But I thought..." Caboose sounded deep in the recesses of his empty mind. "I thought memory was the key!"

"I give up. I'll start working on Sheila," Lopez muttered.

"Oh, oops." Donut entered the awkward scene. "I already called Command for some help. They're sending a Freelancer to repeair the tank."

"Donut," Sarge and Simmons began.

"Hey, does anyone wonder why we're here?" Caboose piped up.


	3. He's still alive, folks!

**It's a thing again.**

 **I can't believe I'm still writing this… drop a review?**

 **O.O**

"So I heard we have a Freelancer coming today." Simmons looked at the sky through a set of binoculars.

"Yup. We're screwed." Grif sat next to him, a bottle of soy sauce next to the orange soldier's arm. "I think the best thing we can do at this point is run around and scream. You all can do that. I'm going to spend some quality time with Saucy." He patted the bottle.

Simmons threw the binoculars at him. "Lose some weight. You could get thrown into a saltwater lake and drown."

Grif burped. "Are you kidding me? I look like a freaking balloon! I'd definitely float. Hello? Simmons?"

Simmons was gone, maybe because lots of things were being blown up by the Pelican floating in the sky.

Sighing, Grif pulled himself to his feet. "How disrespectful. He should at least finish conversations with other people."

 **Seven** : Freelancer

"I expected more than this." Sarge stood over their newest arrival, a battered suit of armor lying on the ground.

"Uh, yeah." Tucker ran up. "I think my son is taller than him."

"Stop referring to that thing as your son!" Grif protested.

"Hey man, what's your problem? Don't disrespect Junior!"

"I like bubbles," Caboose said darkly.

All of the simulation troopers leaned over the dark green Freelancer.

"Well, he's dead. Does he get a burial?" Grif asked hopefully, knowing full well that the other soldiers would get the mercenary to eliminate him. "He didn't pay for one, did he?"

"Let's vote Grif off the island. I don't like him."

"Shut up, Caboose!"

As one, the troopers stared in silence at the source of the noise, which was coming from behind them.

"Wha-huh?" Simmons spluttered, gesturing futilely from the armor on the ground to the living, breathing Freelancer in front of him. "I thought for sure that you were at least five foot!"

"Yeah, and the armor scheme is totally a different shade of dark green!" Donut interjected. "I mean, that one on the ground is kind of a deep forest green, but this one is-"

"You're using the oldest helmet available," Grif noted, throwing a rock at Donut to shut him up.

"Er, no, you're all missing the point-" the Merc began. "I'm here to fix a tank?"

"Oh no you're not!" Sarge laughed. "See, we have a bigger problem! A parasite In our midst-" he coughed and glared at Grif- "seems to have _eaten_ all of our ammo!"

"That couldn't have processed well," Simmons muttered.

Grif put his hands up in mock surrender. "Well, how else was I supposed to destroy it? You all know what happened when I tried to light them on fire!"

"My leg hair still hasn't grown back," Tucker said.

"I'm still missing my eyebrows."

"It's a good thing that lungs aren't essential."

"Anyways!" Sarge continued. "Negative Third Class Private Grif-"

"Is that a promotion or a demotion?" Grif asked.

"Actually, it's a shade of fuchsia," Donut whispered helpfully to him.

"-I condemn you of traitorism and attempted murder on-" Sarge counted the number of injuries. "-two and a half counts!"

"Why am I only half a person?" Tucker asked, showing everyone a picture of his perfectly burned/toasted legs.

"This is the worst trial of all time," Grif mumbled.

"I sentence you to three deaths! Simmons, you have the defibrillators? We're going to need some serious resurrection here! Freelancer…?"

"Guam," the green warrior said, hanging his head. "See, I'm not a full Freelancer yet. I'm in the Mother of Invention Junior Lancers Club. We learn a bunch of cool stuff like the proper way to snap necks and bake cupcakes."

"Just shoot him," Sarge muttered, regretfully trying to load his shotgun with beans.

"Objection!" Simmons raised his hand. "Defibrillators cannot heal headshots! And besides, the closest thing I have is a waffle iron…"

"Just kill him! I've waited all my life for this! And if you can't do it, I always have my son as an emergency backup…" Sarge mumbled and snarled under his breath at Grif. The orange soldier backed away.

"I'm so flattered that you think of me that way, sir!"

"Shut up, Simmons! I was talking to my baby!" Sarge patted his shotgun.

"Well," I'm about to die," Grif stated. "I'm going to do what I always do and pop open a bottle of ketchup. You want some, Guam?"

"You have _no idea_ ," the junior Freelancer said, reaching out for the bottle.

"Curses," Sarge muttered, planning his next attack.


End file.
